"Why won't it die?" he asked, his fingernails pressing into the soft flesh of its throat. "It never dies."
Unless it's already dead. Like you are.
Either way. It was pissing him off.
And it's so long. So long to fall into this place. You don't want to come here, but I guess it's too late for the warning anyway.
He doesn't understand the languages they're speaking into his ear. It's all whispers in the dark, and voices he doesn't want to hear anymore. No one wants to hear the dead.
Anyone can tell you're cracking. Just look at it. It's not dead. But you are, aren't you?
No, no he's not. He shakes his head and tries to squeeze tighter, but it's not fighting; it never was. How could it not fight death? Anything would fight death, it is only natural; but this thing, it clings to nothing. Maybe it knows.
"Do you understand?" he asks it, relaxing his grip a little. "Do you understand how it is? That the world is worthless, made of random and pointless beings who live only to hurt each other? Have you realized that it's not worth living in?"
Listen to yourself. Talking to animals.
But he knows, it's not an animal. Not in that sense, because it understands too well the way he feels.
Stop it. Listen to me.
But it has touched him, and he stops listening.
"But it's not true." she says, laying her hand against his cheek. Her hand is cool and smooth; it feels nice. No one has ever felt this way before. No one would ever touch him before.
She's crying. He doesn't know why. He hates it. Maybe he hates her.
And then again, maybe he doesn't.